When his first call received no answer, he dropped the box he was plundering and darted back across the cellar as quickly as he dared, kicking loose produce in all directions.
"Watson!" he demanded, dropping to one knee to feel blindly. "Watson, wake up this instant!"
He had found the injured man's shoulder by this time and proceeded to shake it insistently, but with no response. He wasted several seconds in timing the low pulse, and when more demands produced no result he gritted his teeth, breathed an apology, and then forcibly gripped the Doctor's injured shoulder, shaking him again.
"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry, Watson," he whispered as, to his relief, he heard movement away from him and a pained gasp of confusion. "It's all right, old fellow…just lie still," he added as he felt his friend tense suddenly with a choked cry.
"Wh-what?" The bewilderment was evident in the faint quaver, but it was a response. "H-Holmes, what –"
"Shh…it's all right, my dear fellow," he soothed gently, breathing a sigh of relief. "You dozed off, Watson," he continued soberly.
"I…I did?"
"Yes." Good heavens, how cold the man's hands were!
"Oh…sorry…"
He resisted the urge to swat Watson fondly upside the head. Besides, his current concern was the flour that must have got in his eyes; they were burning.